


The Last Baseball Game

by Estel



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baseball, Gen, Soldiers, WWII, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7183751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estel/pseuds/Estel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel Sousa reflects on the the importance of baseball to him and the heartache he feels about it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Baseball Game

My father taught me to pitch when I was six. He caught me lobbing limp change ups at boys in the neighborhood and decided he’d put what he learned from a lifetime of loving the sport to good use. Turned out I had a rocket for an arm, but pitching isn’t just about speed. I could get enough spit and spin on that leather for a curve ball and could pick and choose the right time to catch someone swinging for something well outside of the strike zone.

When I got to be too old to spend my afternoons playing, I still found time for a few innings here and there. Enough to maintain a healthy reputation and love of the sport.

The first thing I bonded with anyone about in the Army was baseball. This hay-slinging private from Tennessee and I ended up talking about the Cubs and the Giants and about Dizzy Dean’s dive off and on for months. Morning announcements often included stats from the games from the National and American leagues. Lots of moaning and groaning as the Yankees and Giants clobbered the competition.

By the time we shipped out to England, we had acquired enough equipment between the lot of us to throw together a few games. No matter how many statistics I gave the boys, no one ever believed that Danny Sousa could throw a heater that could knock your socks off.

On a Sunday afternoon, when many soldiers were counting pennies in poker or saying their Hail Mary’s, a gang of about twenty soldiers threw a few potato sacks on the ground and played a round of baseball. My first pitch was a photo-perfect strike that zipped by Pvt. Reynolds so fast he was still looking at me when we heard it hit the catcher’s mitt. There were men from all over playing with us, too. City boys who grew up using fire hydrants for bases, farm boys that carved diamonds out in the cow pastures, and everything in between.

It was the calm before the storm that awaited us in Europe and the last baseball game I’ll probably ever play. Many of those men I played with that day were laid to rest in Europe and God knows I was nearly one of them.

I’m grateful to be alive. I am.

I’ve watched a few games since V-E day; Yankees beating the snot out of the Red Sox, Dodgers losing to the Cubs, and a few more. It’s not the same. I would trade almost anything to be able to push off a pitcher’s mound with my right toes and send a baseball zipping towards home again.


End file.
